


Reset/Rewind

by Minim Calibre (minim_calibre)



Category: Push (2009)
Genre: Codependency, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Memory Alteration, Mentioned Off-Screen Non-Consensual Mind Control Not Involving Listed Characters, Uninformed Consent, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 23:22:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5516978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minim_calibre/pseuds/Minim%20Calibre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She's waiting outside his apartment, leaning back against the rusted metal railing, when he opens his door to go check the mail. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reset/Rewind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fleete](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleete/gifts).



She's waiting outside his apartment, leaning back against the rusted metal railing, when he opens his door to go check the mail.

"Hey, Nick," Cassie says, smiling as if it hasn't been two years since she disappeared on him. "Go back inside. There's nothing in the mail and we need to talk."

Stupidly, the thing that comes out of his mouth is, "You finally washed all the crap out of your hair."

He doesn't like it. The tangled, multicolored waves have been replaced, and the carefully-styled, collar-length blonde crop adds a good five years to her face. Everything about her looks five years older than he remembers. She's in skinny jeans, dark blue denim that shows off the flare of her hips and the curve of her ass. Her loose grey shirt hangs off one shoulder and the way the thin fabric clings to her breasts makes obvious she's not wearing a bra. Maybe that's what he doesn't like. It's too easy to want to ignore that she's 18, and he can't.

Cassie rolls her eyes at him and sighs, looking like herself again, or at least like the girl he remembers, and it's a relief. "Get in the apartment, Nick. You're blocking the door and I told you: we need to talk." When she bends to pick up the duffle bags at her feet, he gets a quick, guilty glimpse down her shirt before he averts his eyes.

Nick steps aside so she can get by. "It's been two years."

"And I need your help."

***

"This place really is a dump," she comments, dumping her bags unceremoniously on his floor and heading to his kitchen where she opens the far right cabinet, the one that contains nothing but half a bottle of crappy vodka and a container of instant coffee. She jerks her hand out of the way as he waves the cabinet door shut.

"Two years," he says again. "You vanished without a word. The last time that happened to someone I cared about, Division was involved."

"I know that." She opens the cabinet. It's the coffee, not the vodka, that she takes out. Then she kneels, opens the cabinet next to the stove, digging around and muttering, "Kettle, kettle… I know I saw it somewhere. Aha! There you are."

"But you left anyway."

Cassie lets the tap run for a minute until the water's clear instead of rust brown, then fills the kettle and puts it on the small burner at the back, the only one that's actually functional. "It's complicated."

"Then explain it."

He can't read her expression when she finally looks at him. "I didn't know you didn't know until it was too late," she says. "That wasn't supposed to happen."

"I spent a year looking for you, thinking they had you, but you probably already know that, don't you?" He'd still be looking if Division hadn't fallen. "What happened, Cassie?"

"I already told you: it's-"

The anger slips through as he cuts her off. "Complicated. Right."

"Does it ever bother you at all?" she asks, staring intently at his left knee for some reason. He's frowning at the non sequitur, trying to figure out what she means, when she gives a small shake of her head. "Not important. Get the mugs. I break them if I try to get them down."

***

By the time the water's done boiling and he's made the coffee, Cassie is carefully unpacking one of the bags. It's full of her things: clothing, shoes, toiletries. There's a small leather purse that looks like it couldn't hold much more than a wallet and a tube of lipstick, which she tucks beneath her arm. At the bottom of the bag, there's a thick spiral notebook and a pencil case. She pulls them out and makes herself at home on his futon, gesturing to the second bag with the ballpoint pen she's retrieved from the case.

"That one's for you," she says, turning her attention to the page.

"I haven't agreed to help you," he reminds her.

"You will."

"I'm trying to decide if that's something you've actually seen happening or something you've made up to get me to agree to this."

"It's something that's going to happen." But she sounds too bright, too certain. He still knows her tells almost as well as he knows his own and he knows that she hasn't seen a thing.

Nick sets the mugs down on the chipped pressboard table, sits down on the floor and unzips the bag. Inside, still folded and tagged, is an assortment of menswear, expensive versions of everyday clothing—the price tag on the jeans alone makes him wince—in carefully distressed monotones. "What's this for?"

Cassie finishes what she's drawing and hands the notebook to him before picking up the closer of the two mugs. She's improved: he can recognize himself in it, talking to someone he doesn't recognize at all. "Our mark specializes in helping trust fund brats with money to burn do awful things. You'll need to look the part."

"How could you be sure these were my size?"

"We did our laundry together for more than three years and you hadn't changed much when I'd seen you."

"It was two and a half and I did most of it." Almost all of it, partly because he could manipulate the machines into running, largely because Cassie tended to throw everything in without sorting and he was the one whose shirts came out looking worse than they had when they'd gone in as a result. "And you never looked at the labels."

***

It's a Pusher that he's talking to in the picture, she explains. "Jeremy Richards. He was low level in Division and now he earns his living helping people with money get whatever they want and can't buy."

"I'm not dealing with another Pusher, Cassie. No." Carver in his head, in Kira's. Everything that went wrong after they found Kira again. "Find someone else."

Cassie bites her lip and her hands tighten around the mug, the momentary vulnerability making her look her age again. "It has to be you. I fucked up, okay?" she says. "I got something wrong that I shouldn't have and Richards can get me what I need to fix it, but it has to be you with me for that to work."

"If Richards was Division, won't he recognize you?"

"Like I said, he was low level and even if he wasn't, most people don't recognize me these days. I need to fix this, Nick. Please?"

He sighs. "'Fine. I'll help."

Underneath the clothing, he finds a driver's license and a passport, both under the name Nick Owens. His face on each, pictures he doesn't recognize or remember having taken. There's a smartphone, too. Nick Owens has a handful of social media profiles and more than a handful of profiles on dating sites and apps. The creation dates are staggered: the first of them, his Twitter account, dates back 18 months. There are more pictures on his Facebook page. He recognizes one of them from when Cassie turned 15. They were in Budapest. Kira took it with her phone.

He pulls out the folder that's at the very bottom of the bag. Inside, there are pages and pages of printed emails between Nick Owens and Jeremy Richards. Those date back six weeks. "You've been planning this for a while."

"Like I said, I got something wrong and I need to fix it. It took me longer than it should have to get everything into place so I can."

***

According to the most recent emails, Richards has a house where his clients sometimes meet him. Nick Owens will be meeting him there in four days. His girlfriend will be with him. The actual service to be provided has been left vague. It's easy enough to read between the lines and the implications make him sick.

"No matter what he says when we're there, stick with the plan," Cassie warns him. "You're not going to want to, but Richards' operation ends soon. It's already in motion, and no, I couldn't have stopped him before this, but I can now, so don't fuck it up."

"And how are we getting there? Let me guess: you've got plane tickets already purchased and tucked somewhere in your things."

She pulls a key ring from her purse and tosses it at him. "We drive, starting tomorrow. It's borrowed, so try not to crash when it's your turn."

Nick looks around the single room that comprises the bulk of his apartment. There's no furniture other than the coffee table and the futon. "If we're leaving tomorrow, where were you planning on sleeping?"

Cassie raises her eyebrows. "Here. We'll both fit, Nick. We've shared a bed before."

He wants to say that was different. He's not sure it was.

***

Cassie's a better driver than he would have thought, that is, if he'd thought at all about the terrifying notion of her behind the wheel of a car before being faced with the reality of it.

"I can see what to avoid," she says, sounding only a little smug about it as she downshifts. "It's helpful."

"Helpful. Right." He wants to ask her about her mom, but something stops him. Maybe that Cassie hasn't mentioned her at all. "Who taught you to drive?"

Her jaw tightens and he can see her throat move as she swallows. "No one you'd know," she says and, somehow, he knows that she's lying.

That night, even though they have a double room, he doesn't object when she crawls into his bed. Cassie lays her head on his chest, one arm flung across his ribs, just like she used to do before, when she couldn't get to sleep. He puts his arm around her and kisses the top of her head.

"It's going to be okay," he says. "Whatever it is, we'll fix it." Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, "I've missed you."

She exhales roughly and presses closer. "I've missed you, too."

He wakes up in the middle of the night, her hair in his mouth and one of her legs wedged between his thighs. When he tries to disentangle himself, Cassie lets out a tiny grumble of protest, so he just pushes the offending strands away and goes back to sleep.

***

The night before they're scheduled to meet Richards, they're going over the last few details of Cassie's plan. Unfortunately, the air conditioning in their room is broken and he gets distracted by a bead of sweat running down the slight swell of her breasts.

"…you're not listening to me at all, are you?" she says.

"Sorry. Could you repeat that?"

He's going for flip, but it doesn't quite work. What he wants—expects—is for Cassie to roll her eyes at him. Instead, there's a frown followed by a brief, unfocused stare, then a soft, startled noise that seems involuntary. She stares at him and he can't read this expression at all.

"We can talk about it in the car," she says eventually. Their bags had been piled on the second bed. She takes them off and sets them on the floor, pulls back the sheets and gets in. "I'm tired. Goodnight, Nick."

He flicks the lights off. In the dark, he can hear her swearing to herself, hear the rustle of the sheets as she tosses and turns. It's a long time before he manages to get to sleep, but he's pretty sure she's still awake when it happens.

***

Richards has a script for certain clients to stick to: he's a friend, of theirs, or of their families. His guest room is always open. It's a nondescript house, although a large one, with a blandly landscaped yard. Richards himself is an unimposing man who looks like he could be anywhere from his late 20s to his middle 40s.

"Nicky!" he says. "Good to see you! This must be your girlfriend."

"Cass," Nick replies. "Sweetie, get the bags out of the trunk, will you?"

***

"How long are you in town for?" Richards asks them, showing them to his guest room. A king-sized bed dominates the space, made up with hotel-white sheets and a black duvet. There's an en-suite bathroom and the door locks from the inside.

It's Cassie who answers for them both, wide-eyed and simpering as she leans her head against Nick. Her arm tightens painfully around his waist. "We're just passing through. I thought we could make it in one night, but Nick insisted on stopping."

"You get carsick if you're in one too long, hon," he says.

Richards laughs. "Oh, hey, there's coffee if you'd like it."

"I'd love one." It feels like the first true thing he's said all day.

In the corner of the room, there's a camera, hidden well enough that it's down to luck that he sees it at all.

***

They're on their second cup of coffee when Cassie asks if she can be excused to use the restroom.

Richards points her down the rear hall. "Second door on the right."

She leans down with her hands on Nick's shoulders, keeping her braced as she brushes her mouth across his, then she smiles before wandering off in the direction of the main bathroom, hips swaying. She's dressed like she was when she showed up on his doorstep four days before, though today's shirt is green and open at the back all the way down to the waistband of her jeans.

"Cute girlfriend you've got," Richards says, watching her.

Nick pulls the amount of cash Nick Owens had agreed to in the emails out of his wallet and slides it across the table. "Yeah, she is."

"Looks like she'd be up for anything, so how come you need me?"

It's hard to keep his revulsion from showing. "Looks can be deceiving, but you're right: that part's not my problem. I'm seeing someone else and I don't want any trouble. It'd be easier if I could make her forget all about me."

"I could do that, but I know someone who could do a better job. He's not cheap, but he's worth it. I'll give you his information. Consider this"-he lifts the stack of bills-"a finder's fee."

"If it gets her out of my hair, it'll be worth every penny."

***

"We're not staying here." Cassie's sitting on the edge of the bed, her legs drawn up with her arms wrapped around them. Her face is turned away from the camera, so she knows it's there. "In case you were wondering."

***

The Wipe is another day's drive away. Cassie spends most of the time when she's not driving staring out the window or biting at her nails. Occasionally, she takes out her notebook and pens, always stopping before actually drawing anything.

"What is it you see?" he asks her. They've stopped for dinner and she's got the notebook out again, still not drawing.

Her answer is cryptic and not much of an answer at all. "A lot of things."

***

The muffled sound of her crying startles him awake from confusing, indistinct dreams that feel like memories and he flicks on the light without thinking, then swears as he's temporarily blinded by it.

"Hey," he whispers, reaching out to stroke her back. "What's wrong?"

Her face is still buried in the pillow and he can't quite make out what she's saying. It sounds a lot like, "I can't do this."

Cassie rolls to her side so she's facing him. Her eyes are red, the lashes wet and clumped together into pale brown spikes. "I can't do this," she says again.

He puts his hand on her cheek, wiping the tear tracks away with his thumb. "Sure you can."

A sharp laugh escapes her. "I can't, but I have to anyway. I hate this."

"Cassie-"

She leans in, touching her forehead to his. "Just shut up, Nick. Please."

Then she kisses him, desperate and clumsy at first, her mouth landing on the corner of his lips, until Nick cups the back of her head and shifts them both until they find a better angle. They shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't be doing this. Her hair is soft, tangled from sleep, and smells faintly like the hotel shampoo, and her breathing's gone ragged.

She pulls away, slips out of her shirt and tugs at his hem until he takes the hint and pulls his off as well, then she's straddling him and they're back to kissing, her breasts brushing against his chest. The skin of her back is hot and smooth beneath his hands, and Nick can't—doesn't want to—remember why this is a bad idea.

He flips them over and slides his hands down her body, his fingers hooking under the sides of her underwear, tugging them down slowly, exposing a neat triangle of blonde curls, a shade darker than her hair. He wants to bury his face in them, smell her, taste her. So he does, exploring her with long, slow strokes of his tongue until she's gasping, short, high breaths, and her fists are digging into his hair, pressing his head down until her thighs start to shake.

Cassie's still shaking when she pulls him up to kiss him again. "I can taste myself on you," she says and laughs, pulling at his boxers, working them off. "I like it."

Startled, he laughs in return. "Me too."

Cassie rolls her hips up, grinding against him, the wet heat of her cunt sliding across his dick. "Good."

"Shit. I don't have any condoms."

She pushes him off and reaches over the side of the bed. "Hang on. I have one in my purse."

It's a sign of how far gone Nick is that he doesn't think to question it, just lies on his back, breathing hard, and helps her to roll it on. He grabs her hips, pushes into her. Everything after that is a blur of heat and friction until he feels his balls tighten and he's coming hard enough to forget his own name.

He ties off the condom and sends it to the garbage can that's tucked under the desk. The combination of rapidly-cooling sweat and air conditioning gets uncomfortably chilly far too quickly, and he tugs the sheets back over them, pulling Cassie close.

After, he realizes that she'd touched him like she'd done it a hundred times before, too specific to what he gets off on for it to have been chance.

"You've seen us do this before."

"Yes," she says, and it sounds like she wants to say more. She kisses his neck softly, her lips barely glancing across his skin, and closes her eyes. "Turn out the light and go to sleep."

***

When he wakes up, she's sitting cross-legged on the other bed, fully dressed and looking empty and tired. "We need to talk," she tells him. "Did you know a Wipe can give back what they took?" Her voice is quiet, leaden. There's a sheen to her eyes and when she smiles at him, it's both fond and bleak. "That's why I had to track him down. But I screwed up again. I can't wait for that now. It wouldn't be fair to you."

Dread settles in as a hard knot, deep in his gut, several things coming into focus at once. He doesn't say anything, just lets her talk.

"After Kira, after my mom…" Cassie's voice wobbles and fades, breaking. She swallows a few times before she can start talking again. "She's dead, you know. My mom, not Kira. Kira's fine. We talk sometimes. I think she gets lonely. Or thinks I do. I guess it's not important. After all that, it just happened. Things changed. We changed." She pauses again and closes her eyes. "I knew you wouldn't be able to deal. It's not like I didn't see it coming. I _knew_. I knew what would happen.

"Your self-preservation instincts are crappy when you don't like yourself, Nick. You nearly died. One bullet in your knee, another one in your thigh. I got you to a Stitch. If I stayed, you would have died the next time. She found the Wipe. I didn't even know his name until later. It was just supposed to be so you couldn't follow me or do something stupid. They weren't supposed to take everything. They were supposed to tell you I was fine."

"Well, they didn't."

"We know where he is now. You can get it all back."

He scrubs his hand across his face, unsure about if he even wants those memories back, sure that he needs them if they're going to get past what happened back then at all. "You didn't screw up, Cassie. It wasn't your fault. You were 16 and you'd just lost your mom. I was 24 and knew better. Or I should have." Still should.

"What happens next?" Her voice when she says it is quiet and small.

Nick fishes his boxers up from where they're bunched near the foot of the bed and slips them on. Then he gets up and sits down next to her on the scratchy hotel duvet, puts his arm around her shoulders. "I thought that was your job."

"I get things wrong. Sometimes, epically so."

"Not always." He brushes his lips across her forehead and takes her hand. "Come on, let's go."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my usual suspects for listening to me tear my hair out for hours as I attempted to figure out proper tagging.


End file.
